


How Can We Be Lovers?

by Klawdee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fist Fights, Idiots in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29710656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klawdee/pseuds/Klawdee
Summary: Old classmates recconect because their best friends are together. One is terrible at flirting and the other has the emotional range of a teaspoon. Idiots to lovers. Some background and mentions of Dramione and Hinny. But mostly focused on Ron/Pansy. Can they work it out? 🎶Prompted by; Silly Love Songs Mini-Fest 2021And by Michael Bolton’s— How Can They Be Lovers?
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8
Collections: Silly Love Songs





	How Can We Be Lovers?

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Silly_Love_Songs](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Silly_Love_Songs) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Silly Love Songs Mini-Fest 2021  
> Big thanks to Quin Talon for hosting💕
> 
> Song Prompt: Michael Bolton’s—How can we be lovers?  
> Pairing I choose: Ron Weasley/ Pansy Parkinson

How Can We Be Lovers?  
“…We must be fools, we must be crazy…”  
-Michael Bolton

It had been some do or other that had brought her back into his life.   
A get-together planned by Hermione and her wanker of a boyfriend, in an effort to reacquaint their chums. And it failed miserably.   
He may or may not have been involved in a bit of a tussle with said prat. Hermione wouldn’t speak to him for weeks after, nearly a month.   
She eventually forgave him, as was their way.   
But only if he agreed to not , “overreact Ronald,” if or when Draco or his mates goaded him, as was still their way.

That had been the second most difficult stipulation. To agree in keeping his temper.   
The first being a promising to attend at least five more dos and make a real effort at amends. Really it was a testament to his friendship with Hermione that he even tried the first time.   
Especially with her being there.   
The pug nose minger.   
When he had sat next to her, at some muggle pub room Hermione rented out, despite not seeing each other since their seventh year, she was still relentless in her snide remarks.   
His appearance, “growing out your hair, are we? Won’t do much. Can still see your barmy expressions,” she had mocked over the rim of her third cosmopolitan. She had scoffed at the syrupy pink drink at first, till Hermione persuaded her to give it a go. But before she sampled her first glass, she had taken the opportunity to ridicule his hair color complaining, “that grotesque ginger mop has this, what was it called again, dove?” she had called over the table to Hermione with a saccharine voice, “A Cosmo was it?” fiddling with the peeled garnish, bringing it to her face scrunching her nose, and back to the table. Then she turned her vile face back toward him still with that sugary voice, “it has this garish drink look even more unappetizing.” He really hadn’t thought about his hair much. His mother had lamented about it a time or two but, it wasn’t nearly as long as Bill’s. So Bill still had the brunt of their mother’s fussing, especially as he was the only father. Even so the barrage of insults had him messing with it, temporarily contemplating a change.   
Remarking on his hair wasn’t the end of her under breath insults. She had a commentary on his every action or remark, so it seemed. “Yes, good point Ronald,” she mocked aloud, “what is she, your mother or your friend?” she had said that under her breath to him. Without much reaction on his part; except to sulk further into his seat.

Then she had to comment on his height and worst of all his actual mother, when he returned to the table with another round. “Grow any taller, Weaselbee, and we may suspect your mother dallied with a giant. If not a troll.” And while her insults were a tad juvenile; Hermione had to carefully lay a hand on his shoulder, pulling him into the chair beside her, so he wouldn’t be subjected to Pansy anymore. Much to Draco’s obvious annoyance; that had calmed Ron with some amusement , as Draco was forced to the other side of the table. 

It didn’t stop the Pug though; her opinions just grew louder. His manners, “my. My. What a messy supper mate you are. Have you never been told; your mouth should be shut when you chew,” she had sloshed her fifth or sixth pink drink about, he had lost count. But she would go on and on.

Instead of volleying back he had chosen to ignore her, pushing his mushy peas with fish away, and drank his ale instead. Laughing with Ginny, Harry, Hermione, and even at a joke made by another mate of Draco’s. He was rather proud of himself.   
But in retrospect— it wasn’t the best decision. As the more he drank the less his short patience held. And the more he ignored Pansy the more cunning she was. It was practically a no-win situation. 

The minger had then started to throw in thinly veiled innuendos; that Ron was still in love with his friend. It caused Draco to get into a mounting tiff. Several drinks later, the prats nasty jealous streak showed, and resulted in the aforementioned row. An actual fisticuff on the sticky pub floor, not much different than their fathers many, years previous. 

Hermione was livid, he suspected had they not been in muggle London, she or Ginny, would’ve sent some nasty hex or charmed birds after them. Their saving grace really; except he was later saddled with five more mandatory ice breaker parties, as his penance. And when they were pulled apart by Harry and one of Draco’s euro mates; he had noticed a satisfied smirk on Pansy’s face, over her rosy drink. Perhaps he should’ve taken the charmed birds. 

He had made it three more evenings somewhat peacefully before they clashed again.   
They were at a nicer restaurant then they had gone to previously. More moodily lit.   
And dare he thought, a bit more atmospheric, romantic, better suited for couples.   
He had no idea what Hermione had been thinking with the arrangements for that evening.   
He assumed she made the plans.   
Although, even she had seemed a little out of her element. But then she would turn to her sodding boyfriend and melt. Even Harry and Ginny were tightly wrapped into each other.   
He gagged at the thought.   
Pansy had been her usual self, albeit a bit more relaxed than the first night. Still catty all the same…commenting on the way he laid his napkin, and the size of his hands compared to the delicate cutlery, insulting his choice of dinner jacket, and complaining how unfortunate they had reservations at yet another muggle venue. 

  
He had complaints of his own; it was too warm, the chairs too close together, and he swore she kept pressing her knee intentionally into his own. 

Ron's agitation grew making the required stuffy clothing even more unbearable with the rising heat. He had to escape and he tried to make his way to the loo. But he was caught out in a dimly lit hallway before too long.

And she was somehow standing near him.

The cut of her hair highlighting the stupid coy and conceited simper she was wearing.   
Eyeing him with disdain. 

He was ready to let her have it, opening his mouth, he begun to speak, “do you know what I think of you Parkinson—" and then noticed her eyes were trailing.

Looking him up and down, a mischievous expression, not in the way of disdain, as he first thought. He gaped like a goldfish blowing bubbles in a small glass bowl; when he noticed, her intense cat eyes looking him over, hungrily.

Now, Ronald may have been excellent when it came to strategy and reading people. Chess, quidditch, especially of that sort, but not so with the fairer folk.

As he fumbled for his insult; his previous line of thought having escaped him entirely. He realized he must be bonkers. Because she spent most of their time insulting him. There was no way…

  
“I can scarcely believe you think at all Weasley,” she prodded more coquettishly, picking at some real or imaginative thread at the shoulder of his dinner coat. 

“Bloody hell,” he gulped looking down at her, the top of her head closer to his chin than before.   
She wanted him.   
And he…he was attracted to her. 

“Caught on finally, did you?”

“I…I…well—” he stuttered as she tilted her head. Her usually straight edged bob curling at the ends and falling back revealing more of her pale long, and elegant neck.

"Can I—may I,” he still fumbled for words. 

“Kneazle, caught your tongue? Weasley. Pity. Can you? May you— what, Ronnikins?”

He gulps again and drops his voice a bit above a whisper, “may I kiss you… Pu-Pansy?”

Tsking her tongue, “I should say something coyer. But am feeling rather foolish tonight—” and she leans up on the ball of her heels, as close as she can, and whispers, “yes.”   
And he dives in.  
Tentatively at first, sampling the champagne on her lips. He feels her slipping, falling away from himself, and he grabs her by the arse pulling her closer. Pressing her body more tightly against him.   
His arousal evident against her core.   
Her arms tightly wound around his neck and fingers curling through the back of his hair. He groans aloud when she hitches her leg up more, rubbing against him; his hand slides up to support her leg turning them about, and presses her back to the wall, deepening their kiss.

A patron walks by saying something along the lines of, “scandalous.” And they pull apart. 

Huffing a slight laugh into her hair, he gently places her back on her tall thin heels. And leans into the wall huffing another breath in disbelief. 

“Is that what you call a kiss?” She said a bit breathlessly, regaining her own composure and primping her bob. “Well, at least it wasn’t as messy as the way you eat.” She huffs turning about and heading towards a back exit.

“Speaking of eating, you coming?” She called over her shoulder turning about to face him once again, “Or are you going to continue to hold up that wall?”

Red faced, heart nearly pumping in his throat, hair completely mussed, he looks toward the dining area, and then back at Pansy, “bloody hell,” is all Ron could verbally muster. She raised an exquisite eyebrow at him, there was really only one choice, and with a Cheshire grin he followed her out.   


-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> And thanks to Coyg81; for allowing me to slide into her dms to ask whether or not cosmopolitans were a thing in UK in the late 90s early 00s. No other brit-picking was done, obviously. And many many thanks for reading this little silly love song fic. I appreciate it more than I can express 💕


End file.
